


Wistful Wishing

by Spirifer



Series: Tumultuous Times for the Weary Wanderer [2]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Reader-Insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-13
Updated: 2018-01-13
Packaged: 2019-03-04 05:11:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13357209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spirifer/pseuds/Spirifer
Summary: Genji comforts you on something that wasn't meant to be.





	Wistful Wishing

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this as a comfort fic. This entire series is a comfort fic to me.

The merchant’s cart squeaks and rattles a little too loudly for your liking, setting your already frayed nerves on edge. It is, however, the quickest viable method of transportation up the mountain—wandering around half-delirious in the cold until you collapsed in a snow drift for a certain cyborg to find you is not “viable means of transportation”, apparently.

No matter, the drunken swaying of the cart is giving you a new appreciation for the unyielding stone of the monastery beneath your feet. If you weren’t so weak and exhausted from crying, you may be in danger of throwing up. Instead, you settle on whimpering unhappily every time the wheels hit a snag in the uneven road.

“Nearly there,” your driver grunts a reassurance at you, nodding up towards the Shambali monastery sitting quietly, contemplatively in the early morning mist. You’re much too drained to do anything except nod approvingly.

 _Home_ , you think to yourself as the stone façade of the monastery grows closer. Almost immediately, a wave of guilt and regret sweeps over you, tightening your chest painfully until you feel like you’re fighting to breathe.

There’s nothing left for you in that place you used to call home. You know this. You are painfully aware of this—the knowledge that nothing is a physical, burning pain every time you breathe. And yet, it’s too soon to start assigning another meaning to that word just yet.

The merchant’s cart eventually putters to a stop by the great stone entrance, and you slide off the cargo in the back, landing on shaky legs. A spike of prickling pain shoots through your legs and freezes you up, so you waddle around to the front of the cart on stiff legs. You pay the driver for getting you up the mountains, and he offers to help you with your bags.

You decline. There’s not much that you brought with you, and right now you just really want some space.

…

It takes you a laughably short amount of time to settle back into your room in the monastery; you hadn’t taken much with you. It was going to be a short visit, at most a few days, to the village below. You hang up what you can and then you’re left with an entire day’s worth of time on your hands.

There’s not much you feel like doing, right now.

Maybe you’ll sit here and read. Maybe you’ll finally use that notebook and pencil crayon set you bought some time ago. Maybe you’ll sit and wallow over how it felt like you weren’t good enough to keep up—

You scrub your sleeves over your eyes, biting back the hot rush of tears. A walk, then. A walk could do you some good.

The path you take leads you through the sanctum, where you can hear the faint melodic chant of the monks, and out into the area of the shrine. A cold mountain wind is blowing through the area, leaving the chiming of bells and the chattering of teeth in its wake.

You wrap your scarf tighter around the lower half of your face.

It’s somewhat comforting to walk the path towards the shrine, your footsteps automatically taking the same steps you’ve been taking for months now with Master Zenyatta. You think that maybe you should have brought an offering, or at least some incense, like you usually do.

You pause by the steps to the shrine, looking out at the imposing mountain peaks across from you; it’s a clear day, and you’re able to see its snowy peaks. The view is breathtaking, humbling, and familiar to you these last few months. Here is a view of a world that is steady, constant, and immune to the daily chaos of life. The familiarity of it usually comforts you—reminding you that you’re slowly adjusting to your recent chaotic changes in life—but today, the once comforting familiarity cuts you.

The right feeling, but the wrong view.

So much has changed in the past two days, and yet, nothing at all. The vision of the future you had been holding on to had been torn away, and yet here you are, alone in unfamiliar territory with an order pf Omnic monks you had only just recently heard about.

 _“We want to move out,”_ _your loved ones had told you, over a bowl of warm broth that did nothing to alleviate the chill you felt settling into your core. “We know you still need to stay here, but we have to move on._

_“We don’t regret our time here, being with you.”_

The wind picks up again, and the cold pricking brings tears to your eyes, or at least that’s what you tell yourself. Certainly it’s not because of the pain of watching your loved ones moving on away from you, while you stand bereft and lonely, barely restraining yourself from grasping out at their retreating shadows.

They’re moving on, and quite simply, you’re not.

You dab at the tears on your cheeks, lest they freeze into uncomfortable ice tracks. You can’t begrudge them for wanting to leave. And truthfully, deep down, you expected this to happen; they can’t stay forever in the cold Nepalese mountains, especially with Winter fast approaching. If there was any time that they needed to leave, now would have been the best time.

That doesn’t soothe the pain of feeling abandoned, however. You had always been _so_ certain that when it came time to leave, you’d be leaving with them. You had hoped they would wait for you, make good on that promise of settling down together in the future, in some warm sunlit land surrounded by the people you love.

Standing by the steps to the shrine, too heartsick to begin the climb, you weep. Silent tears stream down your face, stinging as they carved a gentle trail down your face, pooling and dripping off of your chin. You must look like a mess, standing here and staring blankly at the stone in front of you.

A shrill, piercing call breaks the stillness of the morning. You jerk in surprise, whipping around to watch the source—a glossy, iridescent bird—swoop through the air, tracing a graceful loop around the courtyard, before squirming its way under the awning of one of the buildings off to the side of the shrine. You can’t see from this position, but you can hear the faint piping calls of its hatchlings coming from the nest.

You would step closer to observe the birds, but… someone else is already there, standing almost perfectly motionless in the shadow of a statue. Genji.

He’s turned partially towards you, and when you make eye contact, he drops his gaze almost sheepishly. You realize with a jolt that he must have been here for a while; you just hadn’t noticed him in your walk. He’s turned towards you, but you can’t read his body language or expression at this distance. He _had_ to have seen your… moment... by the shrine. Should you leave while you still have the opportunity to protect your tattered dignity?

Before you can decide, Genji turns back towards the nesting birds and shuffles a half-step to the side. In his quiet, understated way of communicating, you understand he’s making space for you, inviting you to come join him.

You’re sorely tempted to decline; you’re rather confident that Genji won’t take it personally. But… what is there for you to do? Crawl back into your room—alone and lonely, mind you— and weep for self-pity?

You want space, yes, but you realize that it spawns from a deep-seated need to feel less unbalanced. You want solitude, but what you need is stability.

And really, Zenyatta aside, Genji is one of the steadiest presences you’ve come to know.

Tentatively you approach Genji, still not making eye contact even when you catch him looking at you out of your peripheral vision. You raise your head—still trying to act nonchalant about your still drying tear tracks—and watch the birds fuss underneath the awning.

“They have come a long way,” Genji finally breaks the silence. “When I left, they were still only building the nest. Zenyatta was worried they would not be able to find enough materials this high up in the mountains.”

You huff out a noise of acknowledgement. Perhaps not your greatest moment of social grace, but Genji is not put off by your lack of enthusiasm to engage in conversation.

“While I was away, I looked up this type of bird. It is likely a migratory bird, blown up here by the storms earlier this month. I read that the brood size is usually five chicks, but I have only counted three. I’m uncertain if that’s cause for concern or if…” and so that’s how you find yourself passing the time, listening to Genji’s gentle murmuring of bird facts.

The tears trickle to a stop, and you try to discreetly raise your arm to dry your eyes; Genji keeps on talking, his voice soothing and melodic to your ears while his quiet tactfulness soothes your dignity.

The conversation reaches a lull, as Genji finishes telling you about what he's learned about the birds. The silence between you isn't stiff, filled by the high-pitched chirping from within the nest. The parent bird emerges from the nest, eyeing Genji and you warily; the two of you feign disinterest until it is satisfied enough to take to the air, zipping away like a little iridescent rocket.

You're feeling better. Marginally better, with the false sense of calmness brought on by the numbness in the wake of tears. You figure that you ought to show Genji some courtesy and attempt to make conversation.

"How was--" you have to clear your throat to get rid of the croaking hoarseness, "how was Hanamura?"

"Bright and lively," he answers. "…Just how I remember it."

"Oh I suppose... I suppose that's good?"

He makes a noncommittal noise. There's a brief pause that's different from the silence earlier: it's hesitation. "And your trip?"

You thought you were at least numb enough to feel calm, but the reminder causes fresh cracks of pain in your heart. "It didn't go so well," you say quietly.

Genji is silent as he watches you struggle with yourself, torn between wanting to bury the situation and wanting to unburden your heavy, heavy heart on him. Trapped in the isolation of your own thoughts, you don't notice him reaching out slowly towards you until there's a warm and comfortable weight on your shoulder.

His hand offers an unspoken sign of understanding and solidarity, and fresh tears pool in your eyes at the gesture. You hastily rub them away, scrubbing at them until your skin stings from the rough fabric of your sleeve.

"They moved on," you finally explain to Genji. "They couldn't stay any longer.

"We didn't leave on bad terms— I don't blame them for wanting to leave, and they understood I wanted to stay— and who's to say I won't ever see them around in the future, anyways?" There's a loose thread in the hem of your shirt, which your restless fingers naturally gravitate towards, worrying the single strand endlessly in your hands. "But then again... what's to say that I will ever see them around? We didn't say it, but I think I know it: I won't be going after them. This is the end."

You feel the hollowness they left behind, as if there was a physical presence in your chest cavity that they carved out and took with them. Surprisingly, the tears don't start up again. You feebly hope this means you have no more tears left to shed.

Genji's hand rubs a comforting rhythm up and down your back, silently offering support as you shudder in a few shaky breaths.

"What makes you think you won't see them again?" He asks when your breathing is steadier.

"We used to say that we'd move south together," a faint smile comes to your face as you remember the late nights you all, bleary-eyed from lack of sleep, imagined all the outrageous lives you'd live down in Oasis. The promises you made wholeheartedly to do your best to make those dreams realities. Together, or not at all.

Your fingers pick harder at your shirt’s hem; there seems to be no end to it. “I thought about it, you know. Going with them. I really, _really_ wanted to.”

“And what stopped you?”

“I really don’t know, Genji. I know that I’m supposed to be _here_ , for some reason,” you sigh. Your hands drop to your sides as you lean backwards against the stone column behind you. The bird is back, probably with food for its squalling nestlings. Genji and you watch silently as it ducks underneath the awning and into its nest. It emerges shortly afterwards, taking to the air, tirelessly working away at feeding its young.

Your head follows the bird’s flight into the distance, “If I’m honest… I haven’t thought about Oasis in a while.

“Things have been changing for a while now, but I didn’t think it would go like this,” almost unbidden, the words tumble out of you. As they leave you, you feel a weight lodged deep in your chest begin to fall away. “I don’t know what to do now. I don’t know how to go from here.”

You turn your head towards Genji, fully looking at him for probably the first time since spotting him from across the courtyard. He’s watching you, head slightly tilted as he seems to be contemplating your words.

The bird returns and leaves once more before Genji speaks, quiet and deliberate, “If I may, I have a story that might be of interest to you.”

It’s such a familiar phrase you’ve heard so often in your time at the monastery when in the company of a certain Shambali monk. A bare hint of a fond huff of breath leaves you, “That depends. Is there a moral lesson at the end of it?”

“A moral lesson? I would not consider it so grave as that,” Genji shifts his weight from one foot to the other, not quite looking at you, “but perhaps there is some reassurance in it.

“Going back to Hanamura gives me mixed feelings. Despite all that’s happened, it was still my home for many years. The memory of it still stays with me,” carefully, Genji reaches up and disconnects his faceplate with a quiet click. He lowers the metal plate to his side and meets your questioning look with a solemn expression, “And every time I return, I am surprised by how little everything has changed. I was gone for years, and in my absence, everything carried on without me.

“Hanamura can be slow and quiet, but it still changes,” he continues, “little things. Innocuous little shifts you would not notice if you lived there—Rikimaru redecorated, the arcade added Fighters of the Storm. Small, inconsequential things like these that add up, until they make a world of changes to me. Until I am reminded that I am now only a visitor to Hanamura.”

The lower half of Genji’s face is still covered by another, thinner metallic plate, but you don’t need to see that to be able to read the quiet weariness in his dark eyes. His eyes close, and he turns away from you slightly, “It has been a long time since I could call it home.”

It’s your turn to reach out towards him, doing your best to offer comfort to him with a hand placed gently over the cold metal plating of his arm. There’s the faintest hint of warmth you can feel thrumming deep below the outer casing.

Genji accepts the reassurance you offer, placing a hand over your own. His eyes open, and he turns back towards you. The weariness is still there, but there’s a lightness too, some inner resilience that shines through eyes the color of warm honey, “For a long time, and sometimes even now, it hurts to think of Hanamura. The Hanamura I remember, that I was a part of, is only a memory. I miss the memory, and will carry it with me, but Hanamura and I have grown apart.

“It will hurt, looking in on something that you were a part of for so long and knowing that you no longer belong there,” Genji’s hand over yours presses comfortingly over your cold, tingling fingers, “but that doesn’t mean you won’t find home ever again.”

The tears are back, blurring your vision until everything is a smudge of brilliant white and warm terracotta. “I think that I’ve found it here,” you whisper.

There’s still a heaviness lodged within you—and you have no illusions that it will be easily resolved—but for the first time since leaving the village earlier in the day, you feel like you’re standing back on solid ground, blanketed by a shaky and tentative feeling of peace.


End file.
